


Phyrrus Game

by MadameFolie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Dancing, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, M/M, Multi, improvised bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-10 16:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11130315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: Victor and Yuuri play a little drinking game with Yuri."Bravo! Bravo!" And a wolf whistle as Yuuri takes the steel-capped end of the belt and tips Yuri's chin upwards with it. Even glazed over by a whole shitload of rum, his eyes are shockingly clear. The bastard. Penalty, he says, penalty, penalty -- enough with the goddamn penalties. He's down to just his pants and running out of clothes to sacrifice to this idiotic game. Yuri grits his teeth and turns his head aside. This shit's getting dangerous.





	Phyrrus Game

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [the DW kinkmeme](http://yurionicekink.dreamwidth.org/881.html?thread=185969#cmt185969). Post-canon, everyone involved is of age.

"Nuh-uh! That's a penalty!"

Yuri gives in and lets him whip the belt off, too. It's like his coordination somehow got better with every shot he's taken. A flick of the thumb, a snap of the wrist, and the studded belt slips out as if it's been trained. Over on the sofa, Victor applauds this little stunt.

"Bravo! Bravo!" And a wolf whistle as Yuuri takes the steel-capped end of the belt and tips Yuri's chin upwards with it. Even glazed over by a whole shitload of rum, his eyes are shockingly clear. The bastard. Penalty, he says, penalty, penalty -- _enough_ with the goddamn penalties. He's down to just his pants and running out of clothes to sacrifice to this idiotic game. Yuri grits his teeth and turns his head aside. This shit's getting dangerous.

"You're not supp--" --for a second, Yuuri's tongue gets away from him-- "--supposed to fight it. You gotta go with the flow," he tells Yuri, punctuating this bit with a roll of their hips. "The floooooooow."

"Better listen to Yuuri," Victor crows. "Or you're gonna lose."

"Boop," Yuuri says, and taps him on the nose with the belt. Victor snorts like this is the funniest thing he's ever seen.

"It's just a stupid TV show! Do you seriously give that much of a shit?" It's a publicity stunt, nothing more.

Yuuri dips him. Actually fucking throws the belt down, swings his arm around Yuri's waist, and just. Drops him. The room reels, and thanks to the booze, keeps on reeling even after his body's already stopped.

"We'll be watching you." Yuuri's too present in his space, hair half raked to his scalp in odd places. His breath reeks of rum. Yuri can feel it clouding on his skin. "So you'd better make us proud."

"Yuuri. He's going to fall," Victor says. Yuri thinks he feels Yuuri lower him to the ground. He blinks up at the spinning ceiling, while somewhere beside him Victor curls himself around Yuuri. "But he's right, you know. It's about artistic pride."

Yuri thinks about swearing at him. Where did the belt go?

"On or off the ice, you're still dancing for us." Yuuri lays something smooth and cool to the arch of his sternum. Oh. That's where it went. Giggling to himself --almost snorting again, and ain't that a scoop-- Victor strips off one of Yuri's socks.

"Penalty! Yay!"

"Yeah. 'cuz. It's about partnership. And communication." Tap. Tap. Stroke. Up each notch of bone and along the dip of his throat. "Gotta learn how to follow before ya try to lead." Yuuri smiles. "You got goosebumps."

"I'm fucking cold."

"Cursing penalty!" So Victor swipes his remaining sock. "It's easy! We'll show you."

They should be stumbling. True, their feet are a little unsteady, but Victor's gaze is locked on Yuuri, and Yuuri is all over sharp concentration. His hand braced on Victor's waist guides him, leads him through step, step, turn, a sweep, step step-- some kind of leaning movement, where the whole of Victor's weight is resting in his hands, leg over his hip. Victor's breathing comes heavy as Yuuri cups his hand to the shape of his thigh. He whimpers; frankly, it's more self-control than Yuri expected of him. But Yuuri laughs and gives him the hip roll treatment, Victor trapped in his grasp in that way that strains at his seams. Another whine.

"Yuuri..."

"Penalty for Victor." He helps Victor back to steady footing and slips his finger into the waist of his pants, right up against the back of the button. "Pin pon!" And flicks it open. Victor watches in a daze.

"That's not dancing," Yuri reminds them, because someone here has to. "That's just plain fucking foreplay." Victor lets his head loll into his shoulder to watch Yuri mildly, sideways.

"Oh." He seems somewhat detached. "I guess. Is that bad?" Yuuri lowers him carefully onto the sofa. (Victor steals a caress of his face on the way down, fingertips lingering on his jaw; His body can't seem to keep up with its circumstances.)

"Only if you don't want to be seduced." Yuuri's eyes fall upon the belt. Yuri can't help that his own follow. "Wanna dance, Yurio?"

"...I don't remember what we mean anymore." The light reflecting off the metal is burning white. Whose stupid idea was it to keep the overhead lights on, anyway?

The old belt used to be this crappy thing, made out of fake leather. He got it back before that time he followed Victor to Kyushu, back before this whole mess started. Shit, he'd loved that belt. The studs started falling off a few years ago. Then Yuuri found him this one. Thick. Sturdy. Three and a half, maybe four centimeters wide. Coated plastic starts to peel -- but not the real stuff, silver or steel. Can't have been cheap. All leather breaks in eventually, so maybe it's a good thing he hasn't worn it so much. Because it's stiff when Yuuri wraps it around the small of his back.

"Back straight," Yuuri tells him. "Shoulders down." Victor is toying with himself through his clothing, tip of his middle finger drawing loose curls around his open fly. His breath starts. Once again that dizzy feeling washes over Yuri. Until pork fat slaps the metal-wrapped tip against his stomach, shocking him back into his own body.

"Fuck! What was--"

"You're distracted!" Victor rolls a palm over himself as Yuuri fucking berates him. Just figures. "Now, stand closer. You should be touching me." A jerk of the belt and he's stumbling forward. When he lands, he's chest to chest to belly to belly to hip with Yuuri, and his pulse is beating against his own gut like something physical. And Yuuri's going to know. But Yuuri draws the belt up along his spine. "So you can feel the way I'm moving."

Shit, can he feel the way Yuuri's moving. He can feel the way Yuuri leans into him, and the way his muscles shift as he lowers the belt back down to waist level and adjusts his grip. Now there's no escape. Victor's just eating this shit up, pushing down against the fly, curling his fingers up and under to work at himself beneath the seam. Yuuri shimmies their hips together with a wink for Victor and a blown kiss. Yuri holds on to his shoulders for dear life.

Bound in place like that, he lets Yuuri step them backwards. And again. And a turn of some kind or another, his feet won't let him keep up. Each motion, invisible to the eye, courses through him like it's his body that's hooked up to Yuuri's neural impulses.

"Told you. It's way, way easier if you, um," and here Yuuri stops to blink away the fog of his drinks catching up with him, "If you listen to your partner's body." He strokes one of Yuri's wrists, still slung tight over his shoulder. "You're supposed to hold my hand, too." So Yuuri puts him through his paces again, the right way, apparently. He even gathers up the ends of the belt in the hand on his waist, just to keep form. As if any of this shit matters. Yuri could call him out on it. But Yuuri starts humming, something slow and melancholy sounding. So he lays his head on Yuuri's shoulder and lets him wear out his stupid Gene Kelly spiel. All to the sultry sounds of Victor half jerking himself off.

It happens before he actually realizes it: Yuuri pulls him back towards the sofa and falls hard into place beside Victor. Yuri collapses into his lap, saved from smashing Yuuri's drunk ass by a quick reflexive grip on the backrest.

"Ha," Yuri breathes out. Got him. "Looks like I won this rou--" and Yuuri swallows the boast right from his lips, the bastard. He's far gone in his drunkenness and in whatever stupor the music's put him into, because he tries coaxing Yuri inside of him. He gives a little pressure, just enough to get him good and hungry, enough to bait him; when Yuri makes to return the favor he draws back, and suddenly it's Yuri who's bearing down on him, hoarse-throated because that's such god damn foul play.

A hand on Yuuri's cheek wrests him away and to Victor's lips. Yuuri obliges, kissing him open-mouthed and unreserved. Something in Yuuri's body unwinds under Victor's touch, Yuri notices. Something that coils tight in Yuri's -- so he sinks his teeth into Yuuri's ear because somebody here has to remind the stupid slab of pork fat to finish what he started. Sure as hell isn't going to be Victor.

Yuuri gasps. Yuri figures he may as well go two for two-- and shoves the heel of his hand between Victor's legs, too. Talk about instant gratification. Victor goes rigid and the sound that comes out of him shatters in the air, heart barely catching up with body. His eyelashes beat total arrhythmia against Yuuri's skin. Heh. Got him good.

"Yurio--" Victor's voice dies off as Yuri grinds his palm in again. The burn can't be hurting Victor nearly as much as that hard-on he's got. His hold on Yuuri is slipping; it's always been way too easy to distract him. Victor curls tight to Yuuri's side, shuddering with each mouthful of air. Yuuri watches, sleepiness in his gaze warring with surprise.

"Oh," he says, finally. "I think that's a penalty, too."

Can't say Yuuri doesn't know how to keep his audience on his toes, though. This latest offense is apparently too egregious for a little old thing like a stripping. No. This time, Yuuri gets creative. The belt, dismissed from posture duty, gets re-purposed around his throat. Not tight or anything, but. Well. Yuuri tips Yuri's chin up to bare as much of his neck as he can. He's able to get about three turns in before latching it shut. Which means good coverage -- Yuri's locked in collarbone to carotid. He can't move without embedding reinforced leather in his skin.

It can't be an accident.

Yuuri combs his fingers through Yuri's hair, sweeping it back off his neck and shoulders. He makes a big, long deal out of it, too, something about the way the ends curl heavy and smooth on Yuri's skin. Yuuri twists it into a thick coil up the back of Yuri's skull-- and examines the line of his silhouette. Asshole.

"Elegant," Yuuri decides, and kisses him again. And again. And again, until they find themselves sliding to the floor, Yuuri kissing his way along Yuri's stomach. He commits himself to it like he's entranced by the feel of Yuri's skin under his tongue, with sweeps and curls with the flat and the blade in some steady rhythm. Yuri watches the ceiling lights sway from the rum in his blood, wrists crossed above his head. Yuuri's mouth is yielding on him, lips molding to ridge of rib, crest of hip, plain of belly-- and the air that much colder without his touch. Yuri sighs and rolls his body to follow-- any of him-- all of him.

And then Yuuri falters. His teeth stutter at Yuri's navel and he raises his head to see: Victor wrapped around Yuuri from behind, raising Yuuri's knuckles to his lips for a kiss. Without a word he rests his temple against Yuuri's wild hair. After all these years, it's still pretty fucking flooring to see them like this; a connection so visceral it twists his heart's sinews. The splay of Victor's hand on Yuuri's chest. Yuuri's ease in his arms. Victor's hands wander the topography of who he's become, all softness around the waist and a spray of dark hair between his breasts.

"I missed you," Victor says.

"Please don't squeeze that," Yuuri replies.

Yuuri puts him on his front, curled over with his legs bent under him and his arms braced on the carpet.

"Look." Yuuri twists his hair again, pulling it away from his neck. There's a pinprick of pressure on the belt wrapping bearing down on his spine.

"Ooh." And then a snort. "I think it looks better like this." Yuuri laughs, because he's a fucking stool pigeon when it comes to Victor. Yuri tries to slap them, but thanks to somebody's human pretzel project, he can't see for shit. Mostly he ends up swiping his hand at empty air.

"I know you have more fashionable belts. What about that nice belt with the gold buckle? You should wear it more." Victor's voice bubbles with mirth beyond Yuri's line of sight. Now he's just being an ass. Yuuri, meanwhile, entertains himself tapping his fingertip along the pointed seams of the metal studs. Yuri can feel the pressure. One, two, three, four-- Yuuri pushes against the edge.

"I'll wear whatever belt I want," Yuri snaps. The hairs on the back of his neck are rising. They'd better not have stripped him down this far just to screw with him. If they're going to leave him hurting-hard, he's entitled to the dignity of a goddamn shirt. He swallows hard, because it's becoming obvious they're going to put it on him to be the one who asks. As patiently as he can, he works the words out from between his teeth: "Are you going to fuck me or not?"

Victor laughs, the hardest he's managed yet tonight. Yuuri's hand pauses, finger still poised on the belt around Yuri's throat. But he's not laughing. Which means he's up to something.

"Well...." He taps at the belt. "If you'd behaved yourself, maybe....but now..."

Well, shit. It's over and onto his back, courtesy of both drunk morons and their sloppy shitfaced teamwork. There's a moment of fumbling at the front of his pants-- Victor spreads the fly open and wrests his clothes underwear and all down a handful of centimeters. Just like that, his arousal's bared to them both. Yuuri hums, satisfied with this. He's mapping every exposed bit of flesh with his eyes, cataloguing the twisted underwear, the swell of breath low in Yuri's gut, the blood-blush at the tip of his cock. Victor cradles it in his hand, visibly awed by the warmth and weight of Yuri on his palm.

"Oh," Victor breathes. "I think I get it." He looks to Yuuri as if to confirm something. Yuuri nods, raising his arms; Victor returns eagerly to his embrace.

"If you move, you don't get to come at all," Yuuri warns. He's trying to sound serious, but Yuri's willing to bet it's hard to manage anything like gravitas with Victor grinding up on him. Victor has his eyes shut as he moves his hips against Yuuri. Yuuri's fingers, meanwhile are threaded through Victor's sweat-soaked hair, and he's flushed from the drinks and the dancing. Watching them together like this is, it's--- a lot. So much. And Yuri's not sure he's up for that kind of self control right now. Which isn't to say he can't do it. He can do _anything_ , it's just. They've been drinking so much, and touching so much and his body doesn't give a significant shit about his real needs. Of course not. No, instead, his stupid, traitorous dick rests fever-hot on black underwear and black jeans, trailing clear and shining on the rough fabric for everyone to see. Victor takes his sweet time kissing Yuuri. Yuri's chest and his cock ache at the sight.

"Guys..." If this is their game, it's such an unbearably shitty one. Victor tips his head to the side to face Yuri, baring his throat for Yuuri in the process. Victor lets his full, pale lashes flutter a good few moments as Yuuri laps at his pulse before speaking.

"To be precise: Your redemption round," he explains, "means you won't take your eyes off of us. And you won't touch yourself. And, yes: you absolutely may not, under any circumstances, come."

Fuck, Yuri's too drunk and too aroused to even get angry. He lies back, head jarring against the hardwood. He takes a deep breath to calm himself. It's taken some years, but he's getting the hang of it. In, hold, out. Hold. In, hold, out. The pang of frustration stretches its spine and curls, feline, in his chest, easing back into silence.

"And if I refuse?"

"You won't." Dammit. Yuri shoots them another look. Yuuri's smiling at him now, too, eyes crinkling at the corners as if it's all one big joke and he's in on the punchline. And he may not be wrong. But that doesn't mean he's got any right to be a flippant dick about it. "I know you."

Together, the two of them are poetry. They know each other's rhythms and meters and just to behold it is intoxicating. Or maybe it's the booze. Yuri doesn't know anymore. He doesn't care. Not when Yuuri kisses Victor's palm with something halfway to reverence, or when Victor arches his back off the floor, long and graceful for Yuri's viewing pleasure. He sighs Yuuri's name and rocks up against Yuuri, legs wrapped firm around his hips to hold him close. Yuri lies back on his hands and feels the blood ebb from his body, straight to his cock. God, there's going to be no salvaging these pants.

Yuuri pauses only when he's got Victor laid flat and stripped bare. Victor's legs are spread to fit Yuuri between them; his face is barely more than an arm's length away from Yuri's foot. If Yuri wanted, it wouldn't be impossible to lean over, to reach out and feel the softness of Victor's skin. He's considering it, when Yuuri suddenly yelps, jolting the rest of them from their spell. Furiously, Yuuri begins to pat at his pockets.

"Oh-- I-- um--" Finding nothing, Yuuri goes for Victor's discarded pants. "We need-- Victor, do you have--"

"Lubricant?" Victor supplies. He's stroking his hands along his own belly, breath coming uneven. "Not on me, no."

"For fuck's sake," Yuri spits. "Just get up and grab some."

"I'll be back quickly," Yuuri promises them, with a kiss to the inside of Victor's knee. And then Yuri is alone with the proverbial beast.

Victor watches him upside-down, this awful little smile creeping its way across his lips.

" _This_ is what you really want, though. Isn't it?" Victor's tone should be playful. Could be playful. But there's an edge to it. And that-- it's in Russian. The realization --the intimacy of it-- fans the embers in Yuri's gut. Victor's wrist is shifting between his legs; Yuri can't see so well from where he lies, but he's got a feeling Victor's pressing his fingers against himself. Edging his way open bit by tiniest bit. "I bet it is. You love the way he feels inside you." Victor's wrist turns and he shivers. Whatever he's doing back there, it can't be that great. He's got to be playing it up for show.

"Yeah, so?" So fucking what if he does? He's not the only one here who gets hard imagining Yuuri's touch. So Yuri likes fucking Yuuri-- news at eleven. Victor, though, Victor cocks his head, looking so, so smug.

"I'll be sure to savor it. Just for you." This Victor punctuates with a wink.

God, Yuri could fucking kick him. There's a bump in the bedroom, Yuuri still looking for the lube, probably. How fucking drunk is he? There's only so many places it could be. And Yuri's not sure he'll be able to stand being alone out here with Victor much longer, not with the way Victor's got a hand clasped to his lips and breathing Yuuri's name as he teases himself open. Yuri lets himself go boneless against the floorboards, not daring to look Victor's way any more than he has to.

It feels like an eternity, but Yuuri returns, tube in hand, with a kiss for each of them. Yuuri's way of apologizing, Yuri guesses. Yuuri's even quick about slicking his fingers up and getting them inside of Victor, like he's sorry for making the two of them wait. Victor's whole body jerks, stimulation going from zero to sixty in half a second. But his cock is heavy on his gut. Victor's probably into that rough play kind of thing, the fucking weirdo. And it's Victor who moans his relief when Yuuri eases into him at last. Yuuri, on the other hand, just sits there winded like he's been punched in the gut. The moment passes. Yuuri's eyes fall shut.

"Victor," he breathes.

"Yes--" Victor rocks against him. It's a wasted effort, Victor doesn't have any leverage in his position, and as Victor realizes this he whines. "Yuuri, please--"

Yuri's pulse pounds against the belt. Shit. Every sound the two of them make embeds itself under his skin-- every stutter of Yuuri's breath, every muffled keen as Victor shifts to fill himself-- the rules are the rules and Yuri can't look down at himself to confirm, but he's pretty sure he's making a mess of himself. Yuri imagines putting his fingertips to where his clothes open and suspects he'd be bringing them away dripping. Victor twists in place, craning his neck to see what Yuri can't. Whatever he's been treated to, there, he's wicked in his delight.

"Oh, Yurio. Look at you." Hearing this, Yuuri turns his gaze between Yuri's legs as well. Unlike Victor, Yuuri watches with interest bare on his face.

"Wow."

"Wasn't this a fun idea?" Victor reaches for one of Yuuri's hands splayed upon the ground. Ugh. Of all times for them to get gross on him. Yuuri lowers himself to kiss Victor's collarbone. As Yuuri begins to raise his head again, he casts a low-lidded glance Yuri's way.

"Look how good Yurio's being now," he says. He rolls his hips. Judging by Victor's shudder, Yuuri must have fallen deep inside him with that one. "Must be the collar."

For an old man, Victor sure comes awfully fast. Yuuri's touch seems to have this effect on him-- like, the moment Yuuri puts a palm to Victor's cheek, Victor's keening takes on this tight quality that scrapes Yuri raw inside. Sweat is gathering underneath the warm leather of the belt, and Yuri aches to have their hands on him again. Either of them, anywhere. If Victor knows this, he's apparently forgotten to taunt Yuri about it. Victor's so caught up in the sensation of Yuuri's rough rhythm inside him that his fingers falter on the carpet, carving dark troughs against the grain of the pile. Yeah, Yuri thinks, sneaking a look at the ragged marks. Same.

Victor's also one clingy motherfucker, and his grip on Yuuri's so solid, Yuuri struggles to fuck him through his orgasm. Yuri can see it in the strain of Yuuri's shoulders and hear it in the force of each grunt. Yuri shuts his eyes and steadies himself. There. Made it. It's just like he thought, there's nothing he can't do. The stiff leather of the belt is growing tacky with sweat, and his skin burns where the material cuts into him. The relief is so overpowering that he almost doesn't realize Yuuri is calling out to him.

"Yurio," Yuuri tries again. "Hey. Yuri."

Yuri stirs. It's not every day pork fat drops the nicknames. Yuri opens his mouth to speak and finds his throat, humiliatingly, unprepared. He coughs, rubs at his eyes. When he brings his hands away, he finds Yuuri slipping himself from Victor, still hard. Jesus Christ, it's like the guy runs on batteries.

"Okay, okay, I hear you," Yuri says, feeling hoarse. He coughs one more time, involuntarily. "What?"

"I _said_ ," Yuuri begins, reaching for the forgotten tube of lubricant, "that's it. The penalty game's over."

"Yeah, so?"

At Yuuri's knee, Victor stretches, slow and satisfied. He's the one who replies:

"So now it's your turn."

Yuuri comes to kneel between Yuri's spread legs, his grip warm on Yuri's ankle. Somehow, it doesn't feel like that much of a victory.

"On your knees," Yuuri instructs him. "And leave the collar on."


End file.
